


The Kings of Laissez-Faire

by LiesAreInTheBlood



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Angst, Angry Toby Smith | Tubbo, Because they’re married, But whatever you want, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Don’t worry he’s ok now, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), I suggest reading on mobile, L’manberg, M/M, No Dreamon, Sorry DNF isn’t endgame, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The Second War, Tubbo the ex drug dealer, fundywastaken, glatt, mild panic attack, not canon specific
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 07:52:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiesAreInTheBlood/pseuds/LiesAreInTheBlood
Summary: Dream has to keep their nations stable— no matter what. Clay on the other hand... well, he’s just damage control.Where Dream has DID, and the two of them have to cope with the complete mess that L’manberg is now— as well as the worst parts of themselves.
Relationships: (Mentioned) Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream & Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Floris | Fundy, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 242





	1. (Don’t Trust Anything)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from King Of The Clouds(Panic! At The Disco)
> 
> This is purely for entertainment. I really don’t want to see people pushing myself or other creators because they don’t like what’s written. And if Dream SMP creators changes their stances on fanfics, I will change this.  
> Please be respectful.
> 
> Otherwise— just enjoy!

The first time George asked about his face, he’d changed the subject.

The second time— well.

It was a long, difficult process, but eventually, word had spread and the entire SMP knew not to ask about his mask.

Not that most got the chance.

He couldn’t very well tell them the truth, could he?

That sometimes, he heard a voice— not like Techno, who took the whispers as a call to arms— but a human voice, unwavering in his mind.

That sometimes, he was  weak, just a little, but enough, until he was screaming into his own silence and there was someone else speaking in his place, acting in his place, fighting in his place.

That the mask— his mask— has been the only thing holding them together for a  _ very _ long time.

That on most days, Clay and Dream blurred together, into a two-headed snake of anger and nonchalance, that Clay couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

And that to the rest of the world— they had only ever been one person all along.

____________________

In the beginning, it had been ok.

He knew that he was only there to get Clay through his life— long enough, at least— and that neither of them liked the other much at all.

So he stayed quiet. He settled in the back of his mind,  _ their _ mind, and remained a spectator.

After a while, though, he began to realize something.

Clay was kind. Which, actually, might have been alright. But Wilbur Soot, his  _friend_ _,_ had started dealing drugs, started a fucking revolution, and Clay was not ready for this.

Dream was quickly seeing that he might never be. 

And so he started talking more often, well aware that no one but Clay could hear him. He made sure that consequences would be laid out. And then he  _ pushed_, once.

He flexed his fingers. They  _ moved_.

And he blanked. Because everything that Dream had been cautioning, had been advising, could suddenly change. So he did.

He changed it all.

It took nearly two hours for him to get there, but when everything was said and done, their forests had been burned, land scarred, and warnings posted.

And when Clay shoved against the corners of his mind, he gave in, and retreated again, because he knew no matter what, he’d  _ helped_.

That at least, was how their pact started.

But on the bad days, one of them was tossed into control, and the other could only watch.

Clay rarely spoke on those days. And Dream made far too many enemies by himself.

Afterwards, they got a break, out on a cliff behind the forest. Dream sat in silence, and kept the other’s thoughts from straying into battle, and blood, and death—

They both agreed that the first war had been settled admirably.

In hindsight, they kept each other in check.

The second war, though— no, that had been someone else entirely.

____________________

Clay was tired of fighting. Dream just couldn’t let them go.

And Jschlatt... he didn’t have a choice, anymore.

He snarled at the arrow pressed to his face, blood already trickling from his temple. “In my time of need, everybody left. You left— fuckin— your fat ass left—“ He traded scowls with his ex, words already slurring. The broken bottle swayed dangerously in his grip. “And don’t pretend like you even tried, ‘cause I know that isn’t true—”

Quackity gasped out a response in stutters, and Jschlatt was talking again, until they were trading barbs as fast as Dream could shoot. Someone yelled, “just kill him!” and all Dream could think was  _ oh, you’ve done it now, _ as the room descended into hell.

The fox hybrid let out an uncontrollable snarl, followed by a breathtakingly genuine speech about his choice joining Schlatt— and for a split second the van was quiet again.

Then Jschlatt snorted, muttered, “Fuckin’ animals,” and everyone was gaping openly as disc kid cussed the president out, and Technoblade groaned in complete disappointment, and bee boy roared out something unintelligible about friends and loyalty.

Then Wilbur— gods, Wilbur—  _ bless his soul. _

Wilbur edged everyone down with a placating smile and a glare.

“What are your last words, Schlatt?”

The president coughed, his throat raspy from shouting, and swept his gaze over the crowd.

Schlatt fell silent, lifting the bottle to his mouth and draining it in one smooth motion. He tilted his head curiously, like he knew something they didn’t.

“Anyone smell toast?”

A murmur rippled through the room and then he was wheezing out a laugh, sounding, for one terrifying moment, like Dream. The glass shattered against the floor, and half the Rebellion leapt back to avoid it.

He dropped to his knees— hand to his heart— and collapsed, with a slow, shuddering breath.

Eret stared. “Uhhh...”

“Schlatt?”

They all laughed, grins breaking out over several faces. “That’s it?”

“We won!”

The kid— Tommy? Names weren’t his thing, that was Clay— cackled, relieved, crossbow slumping to the floor. His friend patted him gently, the next few seconds a blur of revered silence and happiness.

“To the podium!”

And when the footsteps fell still, too far away to be considered hazardous— Dream dropped from the table, landing with a resolute thud.

He kneeled beside the man, sighing softly, and pulled him up to lean against a wall. His eyes fluttered open with noted difficulty.

Dream paused, and removed his mask, and finally, finally, let Clay seep into consciousness. It came with a rush of halted surprise— like bracing for a bomb, but still reeling from the shock afterwards.

Clay hummed in his mind,  _ Dream, just three minutes, _ and swept an arc of glass away from them.

Jschlatt heaved a sigh, his grin wobbly and halfhearted. “I should be honored, huh? The great champion of the SMP, allowing a dying man to see his secret?” 

“It’s not a secret that I have a face.”

“Isn’t it?” He chuckled and froze, breath seizing in his chest.

Clay smiled faintly, and lifted the blade to his heart. “You can stay in the SMP, but you’re dying already. I just need you to let it be.” The businessman blinked, glanced down at the knife. He exhaled slowly.

The champion hummed, slightly reminiscent of Wilbur. “Any last words,” He nudged the mask a little farther away from him, praying,  _Dream, hold on, hold on,_ “Schlatt?”.

And the president looked back up at him. And  _oh, that wasn’t fair, there was too much sorrow and awareness in those eyes to be fair—_

“Wicked scar, Clay,”

Sometimes, Clay was glad that Dream was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	2. (Caught in the Crossfire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Crossfire(Stephen)
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it!

The slide of a blade against its sheath is what caught his attention.

He wasn’t alone.

And even in the wilds of unlit L’Manberg, he could see the eyes that watched him from the bank of the lake.

He did nothing.

After all, maybe he deserved it.

____________________

Tubbo used to think the world of Wilbur.

Back when they were still playing this game, when Wilbur had turned and looked at Tommy and Tubbo and said, “Let’s make a home here!”

His face lit up, and it had never occurred to the boy before then how incredibly homesick Wilbur must have been. 

Off exploring a separate SMP, his father settled kingdoms away, one of his brothers gone... and so he agreed.

Perhaps that was a mistake. At the time, Tubbo didn’t care.

Then Dream caught on. Declared it was unfair, considering that only a couple of them were British, and they waged war.

Those weeks had been the worst of his life, then. His home had been burned, to the point where nearly nothing was recoverable. He’d died more times than he cared to count. (He still had nightmares, drowning in the lake, watching dynamite chain-light and the explosions echoing in his ears.)

He still had faith.

Now, he would take any combination of those over seeing Wilbur like  _this_ _._ Phil told them what happened. That his son begged for his death— that he fell into the very crater he created.

That he died of a sword first.

It didn’t change the fact that Wilbur was dead— Tommy’s  _brother_ _,_ and now he was president. Him.

_What were you thinking?_

They’d covered the body the moment the withers were gone, but he could still see it imprinted in his mind, long limbs and mangled torso, soaked in dark, blooming red.

Now, Tubbo had no faith.

Wasn’t that what made a president? _(Jschlatt laughed, his grin sharp as he clapped a hand onto his shoulder, ‘Faith in god, Tubbs, us mortal men can’t be trusted,’)_

He was pulled out of his reverie by a groan, and suddenly he was standing, palm to the hilt of the sword.

It had been a while since he last used it—  _against the withers_ _—_ but it was good enough.

_(‘... then die like one.’ And the world is spinning as they attack, black maws gaping in a grin)_

He chokes at the sight of blood.

____________________

It’s a stab wound.

So, Clay is fucked.

Dream has already retreated by the time he realizes what’s happened, and it’s not a good feeling. There was blood on his hands— and he had to pull up his hoodie to see the damage.

It’s not as bad as it feels. 

Just a wide gash between his ribs, angled slightly and weeping crimson.

It  looked shallow— and Clay ran a finger around the cut to prove it _(mistake, mistake)_ but other than that, he could take a regen potion and forget a week later.

On the other hand, it felt like his body was being torn apart.

It burned so much it turned cold, and whenever he inhaled it stung like his throat was filled with enchants.

Airy and dry and thrumming with static.  _ Does that make sense ? _

_ Probably . _

Something dripped from his lips and he lifted a hand lazily, wiping it off. He blinked up at his fingers.

It was more blood.

_That’s not good._

And then somebody’s pressing something to his mouth.

He gasps so hard that he forgets he’s already injured.

His back thrashes upward, chest growing tighter with every pang of pain, and he cries out from his soul, lungs tearing apart.

A hand presses into his spine, assured and small, supporting him, leaning him against a stray fence.

And it takes him a moment to calm down, to realize he’s still on his back, and he should probably sit up for the potion— the one hovering in front of a navy-blue smudge.

His mind wanders in the quiet panic, he thinks,  _did Wilbur destroy that fence?_

_... or was that me?_

Cool, smooth glass, and then he was swallowing the liquid inside, grimacing at the taste of iron that’s mixed with it.

The wound twisted, morphing back into his skin as something inside him clicked back into place. Blood coated his teeth.

Clay sat up, eyes narrowed across the grass at Tubbo.

The boy opened his mouth, hesitated, watched him. Asked, reserved, “Are you all right?” and it felt more like a reassurance than a question.

Clay chuckled, ignoring the splatter of blood in the grass. “Great. You,  _Mister President?_ ” He’d tried to keep the vitriol out of his mouth.

Tubbo blanched, looking increasingly more uncomfortable by the second. “Fine, fine.”

A beat.

“Who was it?”

Dream murmured in his mind, tone humbled.  _The ex._

“Quackity,” Clay answered, trying hard not to think about the click in his chest.  Was that bone?

A wave of dizziness rolled over him, and Clay glanced back at Tubbo, who’d closed his eyes gently and groaned through his teeth. 

“I can’t help you next time. There will always be animosity.”

Dream laughed quietly.  _No shit, kid._

And something in Clay trembled and crumbled. “Where did he go?”

A flicker of confusion. “Who?” 

He began to unfold a god apple from his pack, said, remorseful, “Tubbo. The bee boy. This is not you.”.

“I  _can’t_ risk supporting you.”

“You used to support everyone.” Clay hummed, teeth pressing into his lip.

Tubbo’s eyes glinted with something far more dangerous than remorse. “ _Look_ at yourself! Because I won’t help you, I’m a terrible person?”

“Just a worse one.”

“You never cared about any of us.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Well, fuck you!”

Clay snapped.

“I just heard Jschlatt, Tubbo. Not you. Is this really what you’ve become? A part of them? Two friends, destined to play out their mistakes for generations?” He inhaled, a sibilant snarl.

“Wilbur and Jschlatt. Tommy and Tubbo.  _The martyrs in our stories._ ”

His eyes softened behind the mask, a whistling breeze clipping his words.

“Just promise that you’ll stay a boy, Tubbo. You’re still a child, no matter what dragged you into this war.”

Tubbo blinked. Looked up, his gaze stuttering.

And he gods-damned  _smiled_ , cruelly rueful. The answer lingered between them for a long moment of guilty-ridden silence.

“Did you tell that to Tommy?”

Clay and Dream— both flinched in unison, because it’s an old, old wound, but it festers and hurts like a bitch.

And Tubbo stood, eyes unmerciful, dropping the sword into the grass.

“Take that,”He said, already walking back into the forest.

“And find another martyr to help you.”

The clearing darkened with midnight, and then Clay is left there, blood in the grass, mind in the void.

_Dream,_ he begs, and there is pain in his voice.  _Please._

Nobody answers.

_Look at yourself._

He stands up, and unties his mask, slowly, cautiously.

He hasn’t seen his own face in years. 

Clay closes his eyes and walks, knee-deep into the water. It numbs his nerves. He opens them, eyelashes fluttering, and just stares.

The rippling scar glares back at him.

Dream sighs heavy and deep in the back of his mind. 

Electricity winds itself around one thought, heady and sharp, blurring the rest into a haze of fog.

He smells ozone.

_We need a vacation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like toxic politics to get you editing. Stay safe.


	3. Not a chapter:

Hey guys! I just wanted to let you know I’ll be taking a short hiatus from updating. I have some things to deal with, and it’s all getting a bit overwhelming. (I’m in America; we have some issues, I know)

But I’ll be back on the 28th.

I just wanted to say, from my heart, thank you all. I love writing, and it’s just fucking amazing that people actually read this in the first place, so thank you for the support.

It means a lot.


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